


Without End

by versaphile



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-27
Updated: 2010-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaphile/pseuds/versaphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Survival is its own war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without End

In this, the prophecy is wrong. He lives, and the Master lives, and together they go on.

For all his rage, all his fear, too much of him had wanted that. To die, to re-become. To have all the old pain turned over and buried a little, like spring soil; for the waiting life inside him to unfurl, to rise. For his present self to sink into the oblivion of memory, the sweet sleep of dream. It might have been kinder, that way.

Instead, he goes on. He goes on.

The guilt has eased, if not vanished, for it could never vanish. Gallifrey no longer burned at his hand alone. It came back, it re-became, and the sharpness of the War stopped being an old, nursed ache. It stopped being about him, about what he had to do, about his own horror. They had to die, _had_ to, and he realized just how much he'd grown to doubt that. Just how much he'd believed himself a monster, and them the innocents. A trick of memory, of guilt. But he won't forget a second time. Won't pretend, as if pretending would erase their travesties, their genocides, their pure and shining cruelties.

The War was never his fault. Never his responsibility. He thinks he might be starting to accept that, but it's hard. It's so hard, to stop being in control. To stop being the only one who can make things better. To stop being alone. But he's not alone anymore. Not alone, and some nights he wakes in a cold sweat, horrified that the bed will be empty, that it was all no more than a dream.

But he reaches out, and his trembling hand rests upon the Master's chest. Feels the rise and fall of it, the double-thump, double-thump of his hearts. And the Doctor breathes out. Breathes in. Shifts closer until the Master twitches and grumbles in his sleep. 

Not alone. He has no gods to praise, and it's on such nights that he invents them. Gods of time and luck and impossible things. Gods of imperfect, stubborn, painful love. It's still love, what they have, no matter how old and rusted and abused. He doesn't stop loving people, no matter what they do, no matter what they become. He just can't.

He used the TARDIS to heal the Master, after he'd dragged him back from the brink. Couldn't watch him vanish into whiteness, into War. The Master's life energy spilling out all over, fractured and wild, and the Doctor's teeth aching as he dragged the Master away. His own body deeply bruised, bones fractured, but the pain didn't matter, nothing else mattered but saving the Master one more time. He worked through the pain because he had to, because that's what he always does. There is no shortage of pain in the universe, but so few things that are precious to him.

They healed, together. The Master had changed, after his deaths, after they had been so close again, so close after so long. After they won, together. Their victory. They were _them_ again, and not one and the other. They bickered, out of habit, and pretended to argue about trivialities. But at night, wordlessly, they sought each other. No questions, no posturing, because it could only work in silence. The Master into the Doctor's bed, or the Doctor into the Master's. Every night, without fail. Just to sleep.

If they ever kissed, the Doctor felt he would break. Would shatter like spun glass. He had used his own death as a shield for so long, without it he felt raw and delicate. Perhaps the Master, without his rage, felt the same. The drums had gone silent when the Time Lock closed, and without the call to war, the driving beat, the Master seemed uncertain. Feeling out the universe as if a child, as if finally living the life that had been stolen from him by Rassilon's cruelty. It made the Doctor so proud, so happy for him, and yet... and yet sad. He worried that too much had been destroyed, that the essence of the Master had been carved out and ripped away. But he could not ask, couldn't even think of prying, and couldn't imagine the Master dignifying him with a response.

They're having their usual mindless bicker over breakfast, when the Master finally snaps. Rips the teacup from the Doctor's stunned fingers and flings it at the wall. Then the teapot. Then the table. 

The Doctor gapes. Shuts his jaw. "I hadn't finished that," he says, petulantly.

The Master glares at him, then begins to pace like a caged tiger. "I'm sick of this-- this _nothing_ ," he growls. His shoulders hunch, and he rubs at his hair with a short, manic motion, leaving it awry in all directions. Then he stops, and stares at the Doctor. "You're supposed to stop me," he accuses. 

"For the thousandth time," the Doctor begins, rolling his eyes. "You're not--"

"I _know_ ," the Master snarls. "That's what's _wrong_." He shuts his eyes, squeezes them tight, against some invisible pain. Opens them again, and they're sharp and intense. 

The Doctor crosses his arms. "Forget it."

The Master lunges forward, grabs him by the lapels and drags him from his chair. The Doctor slaps at the Master's arms, but his hearts aren't in getting away. It's not like physical distance will make this any easier.

"Let me _go_ ," the Doctor orders, and the Master's eyes flare with life. 

The Master grins, dark and joyful. And then suddenly his wide smile cracks, and fear flares in his face. His grip on the Doctor tightens. "Never," he hisses, and it's certainty that flares bright. "I _refuse_."

The Doctor gives a short, bewildered laugh. "Master," he says, looking up into his wild eyes, not sure if he is begging or asking or trying to soothe. 

In response, the Master throws him down. The Doctor winces as he's jabbed by a bit of broken table. He tosses the splintered wood aside. 

The Master rounds on him and _screams_. The Doctor freezes, stunned by the sudden rage. He half expects the Master to start blasting him with energy bolts again, even though he knows the Master can't. Well, is mostly sure. He thinks.

The Master stomps away, and starts pacing again. Even though he has the whole TARDIS wardrobe to choose from, he still wears black jeans, black hoodies, black boots: his armour against the world. Or maybe he's just being petulant, like a sulking teenager. 

The Doctor pushes himself off, dusts himself off. Goes to the cupboard and finds another teapot to fill. No sooner has he dropped in the tea then the Master grabs the pot and flings that one against the wall, too.

"I liked that pot," the Doctor says, peeved. 

" _Tough_ ," the Master huffs, daring him to do something about it. 

The Doctor gets another pot. The Master grabs it and throws it against the wall. By the time the fifth pot crashes to the floor in little bits, the Doctor is running out of patience. And teapots.

" _Fine_ ," the Doctor spits. "You want to talk? Then talk."

The Master's joy at the minor destruction fades somewhat. "Bloody _talk_. That's all you do. You never _stop_ but it's all _nothing_."

"Oh, but you love talking," the Doctor says, on a roll now. "Gloating. Threats. Declarations. Or have you given all that up as well?"

The Master goes terribly still. "As well as _what_?" he spits, amusement gone.

The Doctor says nothing. Can say nothing. Has no answer he can voice, because he talks before he thinks and sometimes doesn't even _think_.

The Master steps closer, closer, until there's no space left between them, until the countertop digs into the Doctor's back. "As well as _what_?" he repeats, sharp with barely-contained rage. 

So much terrible, terrible fury. The Doctor stares into it and feels ashamed, though he doesn't understand why. _Go_ , he almost says, but can't force his tongue to accept. _If you're so unhappy, run away and leave me alone._ An awful urge inside him swells, and he wants to force the Master to hurt him, to punish him, to break his hearts because that's what the Master does to him, for centuries and centuries that's all they've done. Revenge and resentment and mockery and so much pain, and he wants it to swallow him whole, because it would be _easy_ that way. Easier than surviving, when so much of him wanted to die.

He suddenly realizes his cheeks are wet. He's crying, and he hates it, hates himself for it. He drags in a sobbing breath and pushes the Master back, and the Master doesn't resist. The Doctor turns and leans over the counter, and tries to force the lump from his throat. Focuses on breathing, in and out, until his chest stops being quite so full of jagged glass. Sometimes it feels like he never stopped bleeding, all those countless cuts from the mansion skylight never healed. He was mad that day, leaping from starships, smashing down to lie in broken glass and blood. Rushing headlong towards a death that never came.

"Doctor," the Master says, suddenly the calm one. He touches the Doctor's arm, gently tugs him to turn. Looks into the Doctor's reddened eyes and there's no judgment, no anger. It makes no sense, but he can't refuse it. 

"I wanted it to be you," the Doctor says, voice ragged. 

"What?" the Master asks, softly.

The Doctor shakes his head. He turns away, and reaches for something to hold, something simple to focus on. An empty teacup. He clutches it in his hands, rubbing his thumb against the smooth porcelain, the raised pattern of swirls and flowers.

"What did you want?" the Master asks, quiet but insistent. 

"What you did before," the Doctor manages, forcing out the words. He closes his eyes and remembers falling, but onto green grass. The soft breeze on his face, as his body failed. The Master above him, silhouetted in the sunlight. The relief at finally being able to let go. Why hadn't he been able to let go? To let the Master be trapped? To meet his own fate, however it came? Coward, always a coward, holding on too long.

The Master is watching him, trying to figure him out. To understand without being told. It doesn't take long. The Doctor expects any reaction other than the one he gets: the Master stepping close and taking him in his arms and holding him, holding him. The Doctor feels fresh tears, and buries his face against the Master's shoulder. The soft cotton of the hoodie is oddly soothing.

"Sorry about the teapots," the Master says, and it's so unexpected that the Doctor gives a bark of laughter.

"What about the table?" he asks, voice muffled against the fabric.

"Ugly table," the Master replies, unrepentant.

The Doctor raises his head. Looks at the Master as if to chastise him. "You don't apologize. You never apologize."

"Telling me what to do already?" the Master says. "I do what I want. Who I am. I decide. Not you, not the Time Lords. _I decide_."

"I know," the Doctor says, quietly.

"I'm not leaving."

The Doctor blinks. "I didn't--"

"Shut up," the Master orders. "I'm not leaving." He looks straight into the Doctor's eyes, and the Doctor flinches, looks away, because the Master loves him, and it hurts to be loved so much, so deeply. It's hard to breathe, in the face of so much love.

The Doctor clumsily drops the cup, his fingers nerveless, and it's only luck that it doesn't break. _You're not a prisoner,_ he'd told the Master, after he'd stopped the Master from literally falling apart. _You can leave when you're ready. Go anywhere. I won't stop you._

He'd thought of it as a gesture of thanks, for helping to save the Earth, the universe. At least, that's what he'd told himself it was. But it was just another excuse to be alone.

The Master never even tried to leave. The Doctor thinks he hates him a little, for that. For being the one to stay, for being the one who wouldn't give up on him, wouldn't move on. But even when the Master was most consumed by insanity and rage, the Master couldn't stop loving him, either. Couldn't stop coming back. The endurance of it is breathtaking and suffocating, terrible and wonderful, and the Doctor knows now why the Master raged, why the Master railed and plotted and destroyed. Why he did everything he could to hurt. Why he blasted the Doctor to his knees, and then caught him.

"All right," the Doctor says, accepting. He wipes his face dry. He walks unsteadily to his chair and sits down heavily. Leans forward and rests his head in his hands. He hears the crunch of the Master's boots on shattered bits of teapot and table, and then the groan of the TARDIS engines starting. He raises his head, and walks on shaky legs into the console room.

When he gets there, they've already arrived. The Master is at the doors, and sunlight streams in from the world outside. 

"Where are we?" the Doctor asks, warily.

"Does it matter?" the Master says, smiling. "We've got all of time and space." He winks, and the universe seems to turn upside down, inside-out, and then right itself again.

"Travel the stars..." the Doctor recalls, and something swells in his chest, pushing out the pain, the fear. 

The Master holds out his hand. "Come with me?" 

_It would be an honour,_ the Doctor thinks, but it's too much to say. He takes the Master's hand, and it's a steady grip, real and certain. He squeezes back, and recognizes the feeling in his chest for what it is, for what it means. "Yes," he says, smiling so hard his cheeks ache. 

And before the Master can step past the threshold, before they race out to explore, he kisses the Master, once and sweet.


End file.
